


Infrastructure

by polyseme



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alt-Power Taylor Hebert, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brockton Bay, Gen, Original Character(s), Slow To Update, Tags Contain Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyseme/pseuds/polyseme
Summary: From each according to their nonsense superpowers, as they say.I was having trouble writing something else, so I just smashed a character from that universe into the Bay. I have a plan, and little more.03/2020: I live again. Bit of editing, then updating resumes.





	1. Nemo 0.1

I can't rightly explain the feeling of waking up slumped against the wall in a dingy alley. There's "not again," but I'd never woken up in an alley; "Ah, of course," but I'd no idea how I'd gotten here; "Why me," but it's not like I'd never woken up anywhere strange with hazy memories at best.

No, perhaps the best description is the creeping dread that I'd never get any of this out of my hair, because where would I find a shower?

This isn't any college campus I'd ever awoken to, nor neighborhood, nor restaurant district. The buildings looked somewhat familiar in construction, though. New York, or thereabouts. Looking up, and out of the near end of the alleyway, though, this is definitely not there. Smaller city up north, then.

Jacket, overshirt, undershirt, decent trousers, and my best - only - shoes: Could be worse. This whole time of course, I've been sitting in this filth. I mean I guess it hasn't exactly been getting worse, but that's besides the point. Time to figure if I still function.

* * *

By the time I drag myself to the street, I'm almost as grateful for the newspaper dispensers as something to hold onto as means to my original short-term goal: find out where - _when?_ \- I am, and what I should be on about next.

**Protectorate Hero Velocity Intercepts Guns, Evades Hookwolf**

"Ah."

Those sound like those cape-and-spandex types, then. Not my world. English and Spanish papers here, a Chinese paper, and familiar architecture re-affirm my initial estimation. The rest complicate things, though. Those two names look like super-somethings, and this _Protectorate_ sounds...well, we'll come to that, I suppose.

No money, adequate clothing, and nothing urgent on the schedule. Looks like a nice-enough neighborhood, so a stroll in the...is that the sea I smell? Joy. Well, the fresh-enough air, then. Might as well head towards the...uh, left. Sure to be something that way: I've got a good feeling about this.

* * *

I was right, of course. Found a friendly lady with a light weathered face and a motherly smile missing a few front teeth. She looked...insufficiently dressed for the weather, and homeless at that.

"You look lost, dear. What're you doing 'round these parts?" She asked when I slowed to talk to her.

Rude to stare; ruder to not reply. "Ah, well, you could say that. But, given my circumstances, here's where I seem to belong for the moment. How are you today?"

"Don't want to complain too much, but it's a mite nippy today." She replies, with a theatrical shiver.

"Aye, aye." Shucking my worn jacket, I hand it over, with a question forming. "Say, what's your name?"

With a somewhat confused look, she accepts the proffered jacket, replying "Jacinda..."

"Then, Jacinda, I was wondering if you could answer a question or two. Just so's I can get my bearings before I continue my stroll through your city."

Brockton Bay? Never heard of it. Smells like the North-East, though, so it's hardly like I would have. Only come up past VA for specific visits anyway. Seems the place has something of a surplus of the _Capes_, they call the local super-powered folk. Fitting, I guess. That said, no amount of flying bricks, mad geniuses, and...an actual Dragon, it seems, could stop the economic downturn of a city dependent on shipping in a world with very little of that.

Seems the PRT and Protectorate are the LEAs in charge of Capes and their doings, split into standard humans with super-gear, and super-folk...usually also with super-gear. Great, more flavors of cop. Wait, wait, new universe. Probably. Give 'em a chance. Besides, nothing to do with me.

Now, the BBPD; as far as Jacinda's concerned they're little more than a nuisance. Too many Cape-backed gangs for them to stick their noses in too deep without liaising with the PRT at least, so they often don't bother. Local kidnappings, domestic abuse, and so forth. Every so often someone dies and Capes aren't at all involved, but it's apparently pretty rare.

Well, there's that at least: shouldn't be too many people bothering me about my lack of papers any time soon. Might make some things difficult, though, like eating. Gotta work to eat and all that nonsense, and this town doesn't seem to have a terribly stable infrastructure. Ah, I'll be fine. A good walk solves everything.

* * *

Yes, it does! Or, well, it solves my lingering question: what now?

Answer? Well, there's a small, half-finished structure in the corner of a fenced-in grass-and-dirt yard. The yard contains a few whimpering dogs, staring at the structure and clearly wanting in. The street-facing door is open, and there's a clear bloody hand-print on the frame.

I guess...I guess I shouldn't have sounded quite so enthusiastic, huh? Right, right: Identify myself, request entry, categorize situation, help if need be. I can do that.

"Hello! Anyone in there? My name is..." Problem for later.

"You okay? You need help?" By now, I'm at the doorway looking in, shou- well, no, saying that as loud as I dare. Some of the dogs are barking, and one has come up to me - a black Rottweiler, I think. I'm hardly an expert. They grab my hand - a bit rough, but I won't be more than sore - and tug a bit.

Welp, I've still got my hand, so I figure that's an answer to my question, and decide to follow.

Along the way, I note a rather spartan set of rooms, save myriad supplies for the care and feeding of dogs of all sorts. And a half-finished _gyros_ lacking a shred of vegetables in the kitchen.

Passing through the mudroom, half-finished laundry room, the aforementioned kitchen, and a common room that seems to take up most of the real-estate, I finally hear pained growling that seems to be coming from a human. Probably larger than me, but injured.

"Claudi-" a hoarse voice calls out, before the dog that's been leading me slowly bounds through the room to a small back-room. Must not have been able to call out to me, so they sent a dog? Clever, and masterful command. Ah, but anyway, I quickened my stride, stripping off my shirt, leaving me in a white undershirt - useful if you're ever cell-bound - and rounded the corner to see a person with far too much blood on the outside and a limp arm trying to bandage their wounds. In the dark. On a simple bedroll, surrounded by dogs.

I slow when I enter the room, arms out, tearing my shirt both for later, and to alert them if they hadn't guessed or noticed. They-

"You. Who. Why?" She growls, eyes narrowed.

"Me. I should, so I do." I try to match her, speaking slowly, and calmly, as I finish turning my erstwhile shirt into something useful. The heat of adrenaline has me covered for now, but it can't be more than 5° out, and it's after noon, unless I'm wrong. Frequently am, but that's besides the point. It'll probably dip below freezing, nights, and I'm shivering already.

In any case, bleeding person surrounded by dogs needs help...ah, seems mostly whole, just a useless left arm and lacerated right. I put my improvised bandages on a mostly-clean chair, and look at what medical supplies are still available, after her...adventures with a roll of gauze.

OK so, a decent-sized kit with its contents lightly tossed, my old shirt, and a, uh, that can't taste any better than 'crat, but it's mostly full. Better than trying to dilute 99% Isopropyl, and better than those tiny swabs. Anyway, I grab my rags, the gin, and head to the kitchen, to soak them, and a clean-ish bit of counter. No visible foul matter, so this should be good enough for now. I head back, holding a long-handled plastic spoon - probably for mixing wet dog food, not making curry unless I miss my guess - and the bottle:

"You want to bite this, or a swig? Neither is good for you, but neither is gritting your teeth. Pick one. But first, tell the dogs to leave the room. You and the floor will be covered in alcohol, and I doubt that'll be good for them. But...you probably know better than me, actually. Your call. Now, hurry."

She elects to send the dogs out, and they wait - pitifully, the lot of them - in the large room. She also elects for the spoon, so I set that in her mouth, and head back to grab the...cleaner...rags. I direct her to angle her arm up and to the side towards me, fist clenched. Then I pour. To her credit, she mostly just clenches down and growls a bit as the liquor washes the blood down towards her shoulder. Pretty sure she hates the smell more than the burn, because her growls intensify the more drenched she becomes.

Quickly, I give the rags another quick dousing, and wrap them tightly around the major gashes. Well, I say major, but none reveal more than a little yellow once doused. She might need a stitch or two, but at least she won't be bleeding all over everything. So, now what? I keep asking that.

* * *

So, she's got a cellphone - smashed - and allies - human ones; not the ones what did this - in walking distance. Well, uninjured walking distance. This'll be something. So, we walk and talk. Or, well, we...

"Explain. Better." she...asks?...as she limps along with me.

She's got to have a good 30cm on me, and more than a proportional amount in weight - muscle, and lots of. This, of course, leaves me struggling to support her half-limp form.

So, I explain. "I could help, so I did. If I couldn't, I would have looked for someone who could. Besides, no phone. Ambulances are expensive, and I don't know your friends' numbers. Only thing I could do, really." Or, well, that but with breaks to catch my breath. I'll be smelling of dog and blood for a week or longer. Ah well.

She waits, before finally, quietly: "No." 

Right, not sure how to take that. "No? Now you explain."

"People don't do that. We're not allies. Nothing in it for you."

_Sentences_, _multiple_. Will wonders never cease? Ah, "Well, I did. Like I said, it's the most reasonable course of action I could see." ...and another incredulous grunt. Swell.

"Fine. Name? Stopped before."

Oh. Guess it's that time, then. "I, uh, wish I could, but I don't know. Not total amnesia. I know who I was. Am. Just missing that and a few more things."

Guess I'm going to need to think of one. Hopefully not by the end of the conversation. Which, thankfully, hits a brick wall right about there. It can't be much longer to safety and aid.

* * *

Or it could take long enough for the sun to start setting. That's distressing, I'll be feeling this tomorrow. Forever.

Anyway, after resting at the base of some apartment steps, we climb, and we climb, and we - why won't these end - climb, three floors. Before we get there, I can hear surprised, excited barking, though. Someone she's helped? Family? The door opening answered most of that.

"Rachel!" calls the voice opening the door, falling from surprise to...well, horrified surprise. "Wha- come in, come in!" says the small man - and accompanying small dog. We're hurried into the small apartment - maybe 3 rooms - and to his living room...with a suspicious table in. Oh, I see.

Easily-cleared, bare room with likely meticulously ordered storage bins everywhere. Although the dog mucks up the image a bit.

Speaking of, "Hey, so, you got a shower? Doubt I'll be much help with the...whatever. I can help out with whatever, after."

He gestures to a room, while urging her to get onto the table. I help out by, uh, being a useful post for her to push off of. Makes me appreciate nurses and their practiced motions more, I tell you what.

My duties ended, I seek out - I mean, it's all of a dozen steps away - the indicated shower, and hope against hope for usable hair supplies. Well, running hot water through my hair to get rid of the gunk would be better than nothing. Definitely better than adding to it with a standard shampoo/conditioner mixture.

Anyway, _the shower_. It is wonderful. Like the first after a long camping trip, except it's unlikely to have been more than 72 hours since I last showered subjectively speaking. I spend a good half hour in here, most of the time spent making sure my hair is free of pests, odoriferous detritus, and anything else I don't recognize.

At last, I am clean. Shame about the deodorant situation. Should be good for now, at least. Now, about my newest acquaintance.

* * *

I stand, naked - but so clean - save my boxers, watching as the doctor skillfully finishes up his last stitch. I've seen enough YouTube suturing tutorials to be impressed, although I'm no real judge. He straightens some, with a shallow smile. Rachel seems out, for some reason.

"Is it polite to clap? Also, how is she?" I begin.

He turns, a quickly smothered look of confusion on his face. "Your clothes, I have some mild detergent for them. Would you wash some of hers? I have scrubs that should fit you both." He points to the pile of clothing by her, and takes the shirt from the sleeping giant.

I suddenly notice just how _pale_ she is, everywhere not generally covered by fabric. Strange. Anyway, I grab her clothes and he shuffles to the kitchen. He grabs a bottle of powder and stacks it on my load, and indicates that I might as well use the bath tub if my clothes are still in there.

"There's a washboard under the sink." He notes.

So, I get to washing, the motions almost as satisfying as the earlier shower. What can I say? Today had been a dirty day, and rituals of cleanliness gratify. Although, this does lead me right back 'round to wondering: what next? I figure I'll escort her home, but then what do I do? A good walk is one thing, but it's always nice to have somewhere to return to, and I don't have that. Hell, even if I portal-ed back to my home universe, I wouldn't.

_I would have money though_ my brain insists. Would my cards work here? Would people accept my ID, or is everything different? Pointless speculation, I'll just ask to look at someone's later to compare.

* * *

Dressed, finally, in scrub pants, I sit with my host waiting for our tea-water to finish boiling. "So, you're the community doctor, then? Also, how should I call you?"

"I would be Dr. Joo Won Parksson, but my degree isn't exactly recognized. Had the misfortune of being in Rhodesia when..." he trails off, looking a bit distracted.

"Rho...uh, hey, water's boiling." Grateful for the distraction from my faux pas, I grab the kettle and remove it from the heat, waiting for it to cool down. Once cooled a bit, I pour into the waiting teapot over the leaves.

"Don't worry about it. So, how do you know her? She has few friends, and you don't look like any of the ones I've seen." A hint of protectiveness, displaced somewhat by the small dog coming up to headbutt my ankle.

"Just met, actually. She was, ah this is going to sound odd, she was like that when I found her. Those were the remains of my outer shirt you cut away. The gin was hers. She told me you were here, so I helped her walk here. Didn't know her name until you said it. And you?"

"As you said, I'm the community doctor. Ms. Lindt helped out a bit when Watson" he gestures at the dog, currently doing circles on the linoleum for some reason "took ill, and I didn't know what to do. Do not mistake me, I would help regardless, but I owe her for that." He punctuates his statement by reaching down to offer scratches to the dog. She obliges by rolling onto her back.

"I won't ask for payment, for that reason, and because I doubt you have anything anyway." He pauses for just a second, before continuing, "But who are you, then? What is your name, where are you from, why are you in my community? I thank you for helping her, but I must know."

"Couldn't say, Doc. Woke up in the city today, and went for a wander. Came across her, and here we are." Shrugging, I pour for myself, and after a gesture, for him as well. A sip reminds me of home. Cheap dollar store green tea. Just the thing.

"At least a name, then? I can hardly credit the rest, but I'm willing to leave that alone." He drinks without moving his eyes from me.

That'd be nice. "Can't remember that. Now, I do remember my past, I'm just fuzzy on names. Mine, my family, friends, all of that. Just people, though. Places, things, that's all solid." I shrug.

"Then what will you do?" Worry creases his face. A grandfatherly worry, to replace his unease.

"Find a name, then...no idea. Look, just call me Am-"

An inchoate scream comes from the adjoining room. Ah, she's awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised, thanks to MachineSpirit on SV. Anything still wrong is either deliberate, or yet another mistake.


	2. Nemo 0.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity suits our main character, who has a name now.

To be fair, I wasn't exactly expecting that. But the doctor, at least, was up an moving before I processed a thing. So I, too, get up and move to the table and thrashing occupant. Well, I say thrashing, but it's more that she's straining against the loose bonds. He's standing there, waiting.

"So..." I begin.

"Give it a few seconds. She'll be fully lucid soon, and then we untie her." And as if by magic, that moment arrived. Weird drugs they have here.

"Where am-" she began, throat still raw.

"Dr. Parksson's." I reply. In a spot of brilliance, I continue: "Watson, Pekingese, likes headbutts." and that gets her. I reach down to give the small dog a shove, and she responds by ramming into my leg. Dogs.

"We're here, calm yourself. It'll wear off soon. Do you know where you are?" I almost start at the redundant question, but stop myself. Standard questions with testable responses. Besides, she seems to be coming around.

"Doc. How- how's Watson?" she asks, voice still infirm.  


"Excellent." He picks up the small dog and gently places her on the patient. Watson, of course, recovers by furiously licking Rachel's face, because dogs. "You are okay." I hear her mutter. Again and again.

"You good? I-" stomach, why do you betray me?

"There is food, although the selection is basic." A kind man, the doctor.

So I set about basic meal preparation. Flour, butter, spinach, paneer? Paneer. This universe can be spared. Ignoring my protesting gut, I get to roasting, then grinding spices. To start, though, I make sure to toss a bit of meat in the oven. Watson deserves to eat, after all. Lacking a spice grinder, or mortar and pestle, I'm reduced to using the handle of a knife, and trying to not cut myself. But praise empire, I've got most of the spices I'd want. No amchoor, but you can't have everything. And no food processor, so it's tedious chopping for the spinach.

Near solid bamboo, this board. Marvelous. You can see the seams contrasted when the juice from the spinach flows in. And oh my god so much spinach. But eventually, I finish. Just in time for the butter, too.

* * *

At least Watson enjoyed her meal. Rachel complained about the lack of meat, and the good doctor was too polite, but I understood. So I resolve to remember their preferences. But for now, I bask in the spinach. Or, well, I eat it. "Thank you for your kitchen. And supplies. I can cook some meat, if that suits?"

The flash of hunger from the both of them causes a bit of pain, I'll admit, but up I go. What flesh? Thermometer? Found: not going to kill anyone. 63°, and don't burn the herbs and spices. I need more spinach.

* * *

They ate, at least. Can't please everyone. But, at least, Rachel has regained human speech:

"Thank you." This, to the doctor. I assume.

"You will want to avoid heavy labour for the next few weeks, lest you tear those stitches." He responds.

I focus on eating, because spinach is more important than these people. Who knows when next I might find such abundance? But then what? I escort Rachel home, and then? I'm stuck here, right. Can't think of a way back home, so that leaves making a go of things here. But what-

"You. Name." Rachel breaks my train of thought, demanding I finally name myself. Be honest, I hadn't quite given it the thought it deserves, but here's the spot. So, who am I? I remember my past, but not my name. I remember my people, but not what my parents called me. I remember my world, but not how it knew me. So, I would remember my family if nothing else:

"Amadlozi. Nice to meet you."

"That a cape name?" The doctor asks.

"It is my name. As far as I know, I'm not one of your Capes. Just a lost citizen."

"Then why help her, a known Villain?" The doctor rejoins.

"Like I said, it is my duty to aid. We all have it, regardless of circumstance."

He looks incredulous, and dog-lady looks... like she wants another slab of meat. That I can do. I grab another slice of... beef?... from the oven, and throw it in the pan for searing. And another small piece, because Watson is yapping again. So I feed her. If only all my customers could be so. I take the just-cooked-enough steaks to them, and try not to let the dismay show on my face, as the two devour the meat.

* * *

It's difficult to not outpace my charge, as Rachel and I walk back to her home. It's been less than a. day, but I assume the dogs miss her. None of this helps that her hand rests on my shoulder. She is uncomfortably solid.

"So...." I begin "Villain is it?"

"They say, yeah." she replies. And so she remains.

"So, what, you keep a small village?" I try.  


"What?" She's got a sort of bemused scowl on. Best to move on, then.  


"Just me being stupid. Come on, let's get you home. I'm sure the dogs miss you." And at that, she moves. We collect our wet clothes, the packaged remains of my dinner, and head out. It's not nearly as long, both being mobile. We make it back in a quarter the time. During which, we manage to avoid speaking.

"So, ah..." I began.

"You sleep here." she ended.

And so here we are.

* * *

I awake on a cold floor with insufficient clothing. In other words, Friday. What's confusing is the dogs. I can hardly rise for the surplus of dogs. So I do the only thing I can and reach out and... that's not right.

Left hand. Right. This. This doesn't feel like a normal limb, and I don't own them. Fuck off, brain. Anyway, I feel tired, so breakfast and morning chores it is. I make my way to the kitchen, the fridge is...non-functional. There is a gas cooker, though. I can work with this.

There's dried blood smeared everywhere, dogs and humans to feed, and surely myriad other things to do. Well, assuming nobody asks me to leave, anyway. So let's get on that. Wonder if she's got any bleach.

I get to work giving the place a once-over with an increasingly grey set of rags and bottle of dilute bleach. I've never been good at domestic cleaning, but I think figure it's cleaner than when I started: no blood, less dust, and I'm not bothering with the floor. Don't think I saw a mop anywhere, and the dogs'll be messing it right back up.

I take the beige mush off the stove, and replace it with a pan: bacon and eggs for my hosts. I'd wake Rachel to ask how she likes her eggs, but I probably wouldn't know whatever term she used, so fried they'll be. That done, I set them aside and shut the gas valve. I miss the heat, now that it's gone. Time, I figure, to see what needs doing outside.

Everything. Everything needs doing. The siding is falling apart, the crude shed built for the dogs is falling apart, and the yard is a muddy mess. And it's drizzling. Oh, and I've just put my foot through some extra moist faeces, so that's nice. It's false dawn, and there's work to be done.

It feels nice, though. Cleaning this shit - and I mean that quite literally - is cathartic. It's not mine, and I don't have any real connections to it, so I can just clean. Mindless. Peaceful. Well, dogs milling around me wondering what I'm up to, occasionally upending the bucket I'm using, or making off with my tools, but hey: dogs will be dogs. I manage to get the excrement into the bucket, then put into what I think might have been a compost pit at some point. Right now, it's just a bit of the yard with a mound surrounded by rotting bits of wood. That'll need fixing later.

Shit shoveled, I move on to surveying the state of the buildings. Really, it mostly seems like benign neglect. If she's been at this alone, I doubt Rachel's had the time to repair anything. I figure she'd have kept up the dogs' shelter a bit better if she could. That said, I don't exactly have the materiel to do better, and I doubt anyone would fancy the sounds I'd make prying off boards and replacing them this early.

I do set out a bit of dry food, and grab most of the cooled bacon, breaking it off in sections for each dog. Probably breaking whatever diet Rachel had, but handing it out makes me feel good, and once probably won't kill them. Which is good, because the heavens chose this moment of smelly, furry bliss to open up. So, I try to herd the dogs to either the shelter, or the main building. With a couple of the more attached dogs in tow, I stumble into the structure, head an extra few kilos heavier from the water.

"Rachel! You up?" I hear -I imagine- enraged grunting. She's up now, I guess. I pop back into the kitchen to hear some water over the reignited gas stove. In goes some instant coffee. Not sure if she drinks it, or if it's here for show, but the coffee completes the aroma of a hotel in the morning: awful, but I guess some people like it. So, I resume, "Food and coffee in the kitchen!”

I am not, of course, shouting. Just a raised volume and lower pitch. The sort of thing to be heard through walls. She responds by shuffling in flanked by the two dogs and dressed in a shirt and boxers. She looks... not awake. I pass the skillet containing what I hope to be her breakfast over the flame again to warm it up, then hand it to her with a fork I hope is clean. It was in the drawer. I do grab one piece of bacon, break it in two, and offer it to the two dogs. Mostly to see what she thinks of it.

She just grunts in acknowledgement, so I take that as a positive sign. Figure she'd be yelling if I'd done something to hurt her charges, so that's good. Next step, for in mouth: "Do you have any vegetables not mixed into the dogs' food?"

"No." Or, at least, that's what I think she said, mouth full and all. I guess watching all of those videos learned me a thing or two about cooking eggs and bacon. Or she'll eat anything, and I've just poisoned her. Let's go with option α. 

So, where does that leave me? I'm poking at my... cream of wheat? Sure: it's got no taste, and I've got nothing to flavour it with, but that seems close enough. Dinner was fine, but that was sourced from the stocks of the good doctor, not my carnivore of a host. So, what do I do?

"So..." I start, spoon clattering in my mercifully empty bowl, "Anything I can help with, while you rest?"

"There's always shit needs shoveling." she said, not looking up from her plate.

"Took care of that. Also, I figure we could..." I cough a bit, noticing my mistake. "There's what looks to be an old compost heap. Figure I could get that going soon enough, and make this place a bit more self sufficient. Also, there's something wrong with your pipes, but I'm no plumber. Pressure's low, but I'm only familiar with wells, not city water."

And, in fact, there was more pressure from the faucets. Decent enough, but barely adequate if you'd asked me. Not that she did.

"Shut up. Don't need anything else." She seemed stuck on the next sentence, and I couldn't guess what it might be, so there was no helping out. "Get lunch."

"That might be beyond me at the moment. No money, see?" I responded, a bit stunned. Grateful that she wasn't kicking me out immediately, but - turning out my pockets - I could hardly comply with her modest request.

"Stay." she directed at me. I bristled, and the two dogs turned to face me. Right. I suppose they'll keep me here, while she... well, I suppose the shut door means there's something in there worth knowing it stealing. She emerges shortly with a small wad of cash l in her hand, and thrusts it at me. This is...

Yeah, this is too much. $800 is a monthly budget, not shopping money. Definitely not lunch money. I start to argue this, and find that she's started scratching the dogs. At the sound of my voice, she directs me to the door. Well then. Hiding the money in a cut in the insole, and a bit in an interior pocket of my trousers, I set out for a walk. They solve all problems, you know.


	3. Nemo 0.3b

The BBPD officer looked ahead, face seemingly frozen. I kept jogging. Not after me, not my problem. I kept jogg-

"Hold it down! John, it's now or never! Kill the nigger, and be done with it." He lines up a kick on the prone figure, producing a crack when it connects.

Fuck.

I creep towards the alley. Wrong side of the road, they'll see me long in advance from here. I cross, as there is no traffic this early in the morning. Well, except that cruiser. Funny that.

"Come on, bro, it's easy. Take the knife. Just slide it in. You were wanting to slide-" The new voice cut off with a yelp, like the speaker had been struck. Infighting. Useful. Either way, they're distracted, and that's something one should never be on these streets.

A few lunging steps take me to the first assailant, a spindly man, more height than anything, standing over the slight woman at their feet. He goes down in a crumpled heap after a tap to the side of his head. Unfortunately, this allows the other three to ready themselves. No hidden capes.

Good. I throw a feint at the guy to my left - switchblade. He...he goes down, but not from anything I do. Lady on the ground seems to have recovered some, and tackled his knees. Good for her. Still leaves two. Another feint, and...it connects. Do they train their goons, or just scream about blood and soil for a bit? He folds. That leaves Shakes McGee. Youngest of the lot by looks. Probably the inductee.

" I- I- I s- s- surrender." he stutters gasping.

Oh, well, that simplifies things. "Against the wall!" I shout. He... complies? NAZIs, man. I check him, but he does not have much more than his inhaler. I press it into his hand. "Use it if you need it. Just... fuck. What are you... never mind." Actual lady-in-distress waiting.

She's... probably not doing well. The skinhead under her is well and truly dead, missing half his head and all. She's covered in blood and gore. Now would be the time to leave, but I don't. I can't help but bend down to look her in the eyes.

"He's, uh, he's quite fine, ma'am."

She looks up, and there's nothing but confusion in her eyes.

"Would you mind giving me the - " is that an old hard drive she was beating him with? Jesus. " - object?" You've won. We're done here. Don't want to be around when the cops get here."

Her expression changes in an instant, understanding replacing panicked fury as she picks herself up. She gives one last weak punch to the likely leader, then proceeds to rifle through his pockets.

"Respect for the dead?"

"...No."

Not the voice I expected. Lower, like she's been talking through gravel. A bit like my father. Or that one Ward after something's gotten at his throat. Either way, she was right, so on to important things: "The fuck happened here?" I directed at the shaking boy.

"It... she... he...I don't know, man. We were hollerin' at this chick, then... fuck. I'm- I'm..." he takes another hit from his inhaler, much good that seems to do him. It's time to go anyway. The bloody lady's holding her side, playing lookout at the entrance of the alley.

"We don't have time for this. Just...just get out of here. And stay away from them. You don't want me to catch you goose-stepping around here again." I hesitate a second to think, before "...Or her. Jesus."

He scurries out, giving the lady of the 'locks as wide a berth as the alley allows. I check the unconscious, then walk up beside the erstwhile victim. "You have somewhere to go?"

"...couple miles that way. She might help. Friendly dog lady."

_Rachel_? Couldn't be. But it's closer than the loft, and I've got nowhere else to be, so "I'll help you get there, if you need. Close enough to my jogging route, anyway." Which gets a nod and a grunt in acknowledgement. She seems to be coming down, and in increasing pain. Might have to call for a car, if she gets much worse. Don't want to owe Lisa, though. Hell, don't want her to have to deal with Lisa.

"Alright, come on." I urge her, placing her arm around my shoulder, and mine around her hip, avoiding her clutched side. I try to avoid most of the blood, but I figure I'll need to lose the hoodie. Shame 'cause it's cold as sin. Speaking of, she's only dressed in an undershirt.

A few blocks down, I finally ask: "What possessed you to come out this early, to this neighborhood, looking like that? You've got to know that's a terrible idea, even in a group like theirs, let alone a lone waif like you."

It takes a few minutes to get an answer, and it's hardly the one I expected: "Hell of a city. Day one, help patch up a person. Day 3, get assaulted. I'll be lucky to last the fortnight at this rate, and given the people I've met around here -- bar a few like you -- I seem to be doing alright. To answer your question, though, I was out surveying the territory. Trying to see whom, and where I might help, and how."

New to the city, then. Explains some of it, but the rest of that? The hell. I seem to be providing aid to a future Darwin Award winner. *C'est la ville*, as they say. Well, let's keep this one alive a little longer. And I'm curious to know if, and how she knows...

* * *

Rachel's place. I don't fucking believe it. She shucks my arm, and withdraws hers so she can limp up to the door, and knock. Before the third knock, there's a cacophony of scrabbling paws, and barking coming to meet us. For some reason, she kneels before just opening the door - not saving you from this one.

But I didn't need to: The dogs all skid to a stop, with only the vanguard even touching her, all of them sniffing curiously. Guess she has been here. "Rachel! You in there!?" I yell to the sound of a more bipedal shuffling.

"Come in and shut the door!" I hear from the back. Fair enough, she refuses to pay for all but the bare minimum, so the place is nearly as cold inside as out.

We head inside, the lady - girl, really - supporting herself on the larger of the dogs. What the hell. Nobody touches them but Rachel. Speaking of, we're met by a groggy, disheveled Rachel, eyes flying wide and nostrils flaring as she takes in my companion.

"Who?" Ah, eloquent as always.

"Not important. I need somewhere to sleep?" That... should not have been a question. But still, I had to ask: "You know her?" I wasn't expecting-

"Yeah. There." She indicates a spot on the mass of blankets on the floor.

* * *

"Explain." Rachel has me pinned against the wall. The fuck.

"Jumped by some Nazis. She fucked one right up. I got the rest. Fuck. Might need surgery. Don't know how she made it here, unless..." Rachel doesn't seem to be paying any attention to me, absentmindedly petting a dog, and staring at our new acquaintance. What's --

"I owe...her." She lets up, and proceeds to our prone guest. Why does she even c--

"What the fuck."


	4. Nemo 0.4

I can almost remember Rachel and whoever that was patching me up. Or, well, wrapping my torso and arms together in the most basic immobilizing get-up I've had the displeasure of wearing. Could always be worse, but I've had-

_Better days, come again. Another few days of this, and we might as well just give up. It's one thing to give everything for personal liberation, but not everyone signed up for this. It's for them, too, but how much is too much when even they suffer? But if they'll splint me up, I'll get back out there. If they feed me, I'll stand for what I think they want and need. No time to relax. Just no-_

"Time." What. The hell was that? I can still feel myself reaching out, but it's not... Okay, that's what training was for. I still remember that, I still remember...

* * *

"Explain." Rachel begins as I stumble out of the side room and into vague dining area. That said, she seems almost as intent on my saviour as anything else. I can't help my face growing a bit brighter at that.   
  
"Heach-" okay, so my throat is clearly not working quite right, there. Let's...let's try that again.  
  
"Hello, friends." Okay, not the voice I was going for, what with not gargling asphalt for it, but I'm pretty sure I'm still understandable. Probably. Okay, they don't ask me to repeat myself, so that's a win, so I figure I'll continue: "You seem to have questions. So do I. But, maybe, maybe we can have a bit of food and such to shake - " I gesture " - _this_ off, yes?"  
  
"No. That wasn't on you, when you passed out." Rachel, please, I need food and mindless chores, not...  
  
"Right, fine. What, exactly do you need to know? I take it you don't recognize this?" I mean, they're staring at my new brace like it's a new head, so I'd guess not. But maybe they just stare like that?  
  
"You're a Cape." She seems to be unsure whether to be irritated at me, or the young man sitting across from her.  
  
"Rachel, I'm not...probably not a...Cape?" But my rising intonation seems to have betrayed my confusion to him.  
  
"Hey, I'm, uh, I'm Brian." He gestures first to himself, then to a vacant chair. "And what my companion is trying to say is did you have your powers when you met, or did I do something to lead to them." Ah. Well that explai- no, not quite.  
  
"Powers?" I feel like I should be more coherent than that. "Sorry, what do you...you mean my Calling?" Okay, I guess I should have expected blank stares, but I'd still rather not do this right now. "Okay, okay, uh, I think it started when I woke up, earlier. I had...puberty is a thing here, yes?"  
  
"Here? Yeah, but..." Brian looks to Rachel, and she shrugs.  
  
"Your Earth. We all speak the same approximate language, and you call this place with similar architecture the USofA, no matter that I don't recognize the city. So, I figure this is Earth, just not my original one. That about right?" Well, their faces did some interesting things, there. Brian's far more than Rachel's. I figure this just doesn't interest her as much as me having lied to her. "So, we have puberty, wherein you develop your bits. Then we have the Calling. Not for everybody, mind, but for most of us. But when it hits is all about your society, personal beliefs, and so on. I think I've found mine, which, at least, answers a vague question or two of mine." This has clearly answered few of theirs.  
  
"So, you...Triggered? Because of the Nazis? Is that..." Brian looks...something, and Rachel looks like she's expecting one of her dogs to figure out what needs to change, and do it. Well, I can work with that.  
  
"Triggered? Explain that, and I can tell you if I did or not." I counter, mildly.  
  
"Bad shit happens, but you get powers." Rachel answers.

Ah, well, okay. So, they figure that earlier... "That's...not it. Worst day of my life was years ago. Today was...well, it was like those days, but nothing special. But something is different, yeah. I woke up to my body feeling different. Wasn't sure what to make of it. Like having new limbs, senses, that sort of thing. But hell, I've woken up feeling weirder, so I pushed that away."

I pause to switch tracks a bit.

"But that was this morning. Those Nazis followed me, jumped me, probably would have killed me. Then he - Brian - jumped in. My hero." I have no idea what his face is doing, but it's better than what it was, so I'll take it. "Then we got out of there and came here. But when I woke up, I...did _this_." I shift my torso around to give a better look at my new and improved...field dressing from home. "But no, not the worst day of my life, and the bad part wasn't the bit that started this. But, I think, if you let me at the kitchen, I can do a better job explaining, and also throw together...whatever meal this is."

"Breakfast." Brian. Finally, sense.

"Yes." Thank you.

* * *

Breakfast didn't go quite right. Assembling utensils and ingredients worked well enough, but once cooking-

_Started my latest shift cooking soup for us all. I'd say it's for my level, but the spire isn't even a tenth built, let alone enough for divisions between the levels. But I feel like we're getting there. Do I add another canister of flakes or-_

-I guess I'm done. And here we are. They seem to be staring: I mean, okay, I'd be staring. 

"So...I was definitely cooking. Then, I had a bit of a flashback. Then-" I trailed off, a bit, but Brian - thank him - finished.

"Your power slapped reality and told it to do something else?" Strange, there was no real affect, there.

"Yeah, thereabouts. So, it's safe. Well, back where I'm from, it'd be safe. For all I know it's wildly poisonous to you lot. But this is cafeteria soup, same as I grew up on." I accentuate my point with a sip poured into my mouth and a grimace. "It's edible, and a bit better than boiling your shoes, but...I'll be honest, this wasn't really what I was going for. Also..."

Rachel seems to be caring for some of the dogs, who're busy projectile-vomiting over in the corner. Aah, fu-

"Rachel. Favour. If this doesn't work, I won't protest when you punch me. Deal?"

"Last favor." She mumbles, hands and face buried in fur. Fair enough.

I turn myself to the neglected pan of assorted meats and - 

_NONONONONO_

\- well, at least it's controllable. That doestn't much help with Rachel and Brian dry-heaving in the corner, but it's a start.

"So, hey. Food? Or, well, food, and no...that?" Come on, come on....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the last chapter of Nemo, apparently.


	5. Nemo 0.5

On balance, everything worked out fine. I mean, my jaw still hurts from Rachel's punch, but I can't say I have much real problem with the overall outcome of the demonstration. And, really, I probably should have gotten everyone out of the room first, given their original reaction, but again: it worked. So that's a a pot of - home-_ish_-made - soup, a _slightly modified_ range, and a vanished pile of assorted meats, all the remaining old spices, and various food scraps. The soup was sitting on the erstwhile - and still technically functional as such - stovetop, while most of the assorted uncooked foods found themselves in the bottom compartment of the former built-under oven, quickly being broken down into useful components. The rest was warming in the preparation compartment, an assortment of, at a guess, whatever basic foods came as a default on this model. Not that I could remember any of them, but there was a clear distinction between the majority - warm, unadorned meat - and the smaller, more fanciful bits. With this, I shuffled everyone outside to eat away from the noisesome mess that was _clearly not my fault_.

* * *

So, here we sit: cold concrete underneath, barely sheltered under a simple tarp possibly left over from the original construction if the state of it is any indication. The dogs, at least, seem to be carrying on as if they hadn't just recently emptied themselves inside. My two human companions, however, keep looking at me between bites. Could be worse. I mean, I _had_ cleaned up inside, everyone got to eat, _and_ there was food left over for the rest of my plan

"So" Brian begins, "I'm still a bit lost on what your plan is, here. You show up, help Rachel - thanks again, by the way - and promptly submit your entry for the Darwin Awards by wandering into what might as well be an open war zone between the E88 and the locals. And, _and_ you follow that up by revealing you had powers _you didn't even bother to use_ just to, what, have me save you?"

"What he said." Rachel adds, helpfully.

I'd had a bit of time to think while cleaning, as they brought everything outside, so I figure I have a decent enough plan, all things considered: "Well, I'm going to need the basics, and my Calling has both simplified and complicated that. I do, by the way, think I know what category I'm in, I just need a bit more time to test to be sure, as I'm the only one my community has ever produced to my admittedly slim knowledge.

"So, on the one hand, I'm probably in little danger of dying from hunger, thirst, exposure, and so on, so long as I have a plot of land and access to raw materials. I mean, some bare earth and piles of garbage would probably do me good for a while. Although, I realize this is probably making the case for kicking me out at this point, which, uh, I could understand. On the other hand, I _can_ cook without the power. Probably. I mean, I made the cleaning tool without it."

Cleaning tool? Right, so, Rachel no longer has a vacuum, a few tools, and most of the cleaning chemicals that might have been in the closet. But it gets out vomit, blood, and the rest without much fuss, and is as simple as anything else I can make to repair. At that, I continue.

"So, that leads into the broader question of what I plan to do in your not-so-lovely city. Unfortunately, that's where my plan ends. I mean, I don't have a way off this rock, and I have the same duties and obligations here as I would have whence I came, so as the local experts I might as well consult you about what I should do to fulfill those."

Before I can continue, Brian raises his hand to interrupt: "Category? I'm guessing it's not quite the same as the _Mover_, _Shaker_, _Brute_ and _Breaker_...?" He finishes with a bit of sing-song quality while rolling his hand a bit.

"I...don't think so? At least, I've never heard of those." I reply.

"PRT Cape Threat Classifications:
    
    
      'Mover, Shaker,
    Brute and Breaker.
    
    Master, Tinker,
    Blaster and Thinker,
    
    Striker, Changer,
    Trump and Stranger.'
    
    

Movers have abilities that let them move outside human norms like local hero Velocity who, uh, is fast, Shakers warp space, time, and so forth to do weird things. Vista, the tiny Ward does awful things to space. Brutes have superhuman physiques, like Alexandria who is...uh, Alexandria." Someone to look up later. "Breakers usually have _weird_ bodies, like Legend, who, uh, again, Legend." Right, right, too many things I'm missing, but I think I get it.

"Okay, okay, yeah, no. That's not...that's not how we do it. We're _Called_ to service, or to a lifestyle, orsomething. That's, uh, it's not the same thing for every society, mind, but it's similar enough. So, we've got Healer, Defender, Administrator, and so forth. Those, at least, I've seen. They work next to doctors, community defense, and the paper pushers that ensure we don't all forget our names or whatever doing the same things but, you know, better. Mine, though...I'm pretty sure I'm a...well, we didn't have a name for it, so...I don't know, _Founder_. The person in _de facto_ control of a new community independent of polity of origin? Not a colony, but...sort of? Like I said, I've never seen one from my community, because we, uh, didn't colonise. We just..." I trail off, realizing I've been rambling to two staring faces. Help.

Rachel obliges. "You're weird. What can you do? Don't make me hit you again." Brian doesn't seem any more likely to restrain her than before, so further demonstrations will need to be a bit different, this time. I ask for an hour or so alone inside, explaining that I'll be going from room to room changing things they probably won't even notice. Probably.

* * *

"So that's all but one thing taken care of. If you'll just hand me a key, and turn around, I'll do the last bit, yeah?" I announce, stepping outside once more to my welcoming audience. No punches. Well, I do catch Rachel's key with my face, but that's as much my own lack of coordination as anything, so I'll take this as a positive sign. It's not like there's much to object to, here.

As they turn around, I grasp the key and the door handle tightly, making sure to fully interpose my body between the objects and any possible observers, and _pull_. After far too long, but no time at all, I've reconfigured both objects into an access handle, and an identity card.

"All clear." I say, and they turn around, looking no worse for the exercise. "This is yours" I flip the (ex-key) card to Rachel "it's your new key. Press your thumb on the red section, and it'll only ever work for you. Well, your body. Don't get mind-controlled, or cloned, yeah? Also, if you undergo serious body modification, it might not work, but there's a system for that." She scowls, but does as instructed, and grunts when the card flashes. "Yeah, it's good. Hold it, and tap it here...and, you're good. So long as that's on you, the door will work like normal. If you misplace it, just grab the handle like normal and wait a second and it'll let you in. I'll show you how to add other people later, but that takes...other stuff. Anyway, go on in."

As she enters, she stands silhouetted against the dark interior, a soft red glow spilling around her. Her strong back, clad in her forgettable, everyday wear is no longer hers, but that of every citizen returning home after another frustrating day. As she turns, for a moment, there is not confusion, but acceptance in her features. But only for a moment. Soon enough, she's got her scowl back in place, because I've clearly messed up somewhere.

"It's different. Explain." Scowl aside, I don't think she's actually angry yet. Go me.

"Right, you've noticed the lights. And the walls. Don't worry about the smell, it'll be gone soo- actually, almost as soon as you let the dogs in, really. The red lights are emergency lighting. With no generator, you've got about a month of emergency functionality, lights included. Normal lights match external lighting by default, but only roughly. Only one sensor because I didn't want to alter the overall appearance, so it'll average to that. Let's get through everything before we start messing with settings, yeah?"

At her grunt in affirmation, I lead them through the rooms, explaining as we go.

"So, basically everything does what you remember it doing, so don't worry about that. A few notable exceptions here and there, but for the most part it's either the same as what you remember, or simpler. If you'll join me in the kitchen, I think I can summarize everything." I gesture for them to sit, and position myself by the Dispenser, Standard Model which has taken the place of the cooking and food storage appliances.

"So your stove, oven: those you saw me alter. Sorry about that. But I've expanded that to include most of the counter space, your old refrigerator, and a bit of your pantry space. Behold, the Dispenser, Standard Model. Toss stuff in, get food out. Well, and other things, but it's mostly for food and medicine. At its most basic, it's got burners here" a gesture to where the stove-top was "a heating compartment here" another to what used to be under-counter cupboard space "the pre-process storage area here" one more to the erstwhile refrigerator area "and a finished item storage area here" a final gesture to the pantry area. "It seems to have come with some basic instructions, which is good, because my talents lie with stuff I can eat, and hoping the rest doesn't kill anyone. Anything else, you can program in here." With that, I bring up the interface on what might otherwise be confused with a part of the counter. Honestly, I don't know if someone not raised with it would understand the interface, but it can't be too hard if it's included in aid packages for isolated communities, yeah? Yeah, let's go with that.

"If you want it to last longer, put in the kinds of things you want to get out of it. But, really, it's just a question of energy. If you shovel in enough garbage, it'll generate...edible items eventually. Actually, I'd suggest shoving all food waste into the collector to minimize waste.

"Moving on, though, let's skip to your laundry facilities. Washer and dryer are now an Converter, Standard Issue. It does two things: makes just about anything else you might want, so long as it isn't too complicated, and it's where you want to dump more complex waste. Unwanted go in the Dispenser bin, unwanted clothes and other gear goes in this bin. Really, though, it's the user-facing part of the Generator. That's downstairs."

That...gets me a couple of stares. What.

"It's...you have a basement. Did you not know that?"

Brian looks over to Rachel, who runs her hands through her hair as she leans her head back. I'm sure that means something. Whatever, she shakes her head and looks back to me, rolling her hand.

"Right, well, you do, and however you were _intended_ to access it, the entrance is over here." I tap my foot on the controls for the trap door down, and it springs open. "If you'll follow?"

I walk downstairs, and they follow. Brian whispers something to Rachel, eliciting a short bark of laughter. Laughter is good, so I'll take it.

"So, new basement. Not much is different, really. It's really just some empty rooms, and the generator over there. Only real difference is..." I trail off, as Rachel takes up the question.

"The walls. Were they like this?"

They, in fact, were not. The originals were aging grey concrete with wooden supports on the outside, and rebar throughout. Bit surprised they hadn't caved by now, but hey: fixed. The new walls are a nostalgic matte black: from experience, they would seem to recede to nothing under no lighting. However, they all glow with a faint red light, seeming to come from a point farther away than the walls themselves. Emanating from them, too, is a faint hum, or rumble, only barely detectable to me, that wraps around occupants like a comforting embrace. Or, well, that's what it's like to me. My housemate and her friend don't seem to regard this as terribly homey.

"Well, no, but the walls upstairs are like this, too. The materials mostly just came from excavating a little farther down here. The old facades are now just that. But if you'll put a hand on the wall, that'll make for a good segue into the next topic.

"The walls, you see, are also the primary capacitors for this building now. The walls power the devices, except the generator, which powers them. Everything I've made or altered is connected through these."

Predictably, they both jerk their hands away from the warm surfaces. That's...probably apprehension on their faces. Heh.

"The hell?" Rachel questions, mildly.

"So, the walls are whatever this is" I knock on the hard facing material, "a gel underneath, a plate, then the core. It's entirely safe, but I would recommend against trying to get to any of those interior layers. Well, I say it's safe, it's what my dormitory was made of, and it's what my Calling has pulled into your world, so..." I trail off, and shrug.

"Dormitory?" Rachel asks.

"Ah, I'll explain later. I've got plans. Probably. Anyway. Questions?"

Brian leaps at the chance "So...you're a what, dimension-hopping supervillain is what I'm getting out of your...aesthetic. You want to clarify?"

Well, that's not exactly what I was hoping for, but I'm game. "Well, probably not. The dimension-hopping is new. I...guess you could call me a supervillain, if you wanted to stretch things. I mean, sure, there were some governments we were on the wrong side of, but you can hardly call a few million people occupying a good chunk of a continent supervillains, can you? Don't answer that. Look, I'm not actually sure why the clothes, and walls are all black by default, but they I'm going to guess a committee decided it, like everything else, and it stuck because nobody cared enough to call another meeting on it in our community, let alone throughout the confederation. So...black it is. The walls, I can change. The clothes, anyone can change. But, yeah, if you just grab a default outfit from the former laundry devices, it'll spit out something like this." I say, gesturing to myself. Black jumpsuits for everyone, hooray. Just like home, really, if they go for it.

"So," I continue, "yeah. This is just the Work Clothes preset. Those are prefab walls you'd see anywhere. Not sure what else y'all were expecting but the bare minimum, given the time I took. Besides, it _is_ all customizable, if you want. It is, after all, your house Rachel. Tell me what you want changed, and I'll get on it. If you'll let me stay, that is."

She stares at me for a few seconds, then nods and gives me a small smile. "You'll do. Just don't do your thing in front of me or the dogs, and you can stay. Got some projects for you, later." And up she marches, off to do...something.

Brian, on the other hand, gives me a look. Then, I go blind.

* * *

Okay, so I didn't go blind. That said, I do have a swollen eye from immediately walking into a Brian's shoulder. Brian, who has powers. Neat. Well, anyway, I've been kidnapped. Which is...less distressing, this time. I mean, I know the other entities in the car, and I've got a vague idea of not only where we're going, but also why I shouldn't be terribly afraid.

We are, it seems, going to visit some of their other friends. Further, blinding me was just Brian's way of demonstrating his power as efficiently as possible. Turns out, most people don't react by immediately sprinting at him unless they were already going to do that, though, so he carried me upstairs and got me a cold pack for my troubles. This is getting to be a habit, not that I'm complaining about being carried around by the muscular types I'm finding myself surrounded by.

When we arrive, we file into what I assume to be a living room, giving the furniture arrangement, and a masked panel. Now, two of them are obvious, Rachel having donned a cute plastic mask, and Brian in riding leathers, exuding an inky smoke. Rad. The others, however, were new: one a thin figure with curly brown hair, light skin, a candid mask, and a scepter posed artfully across a chair, draped as if a carefree noble on his throne; the other equally thin, wearing the bare minimum of a mask and a practiced smirk, or so I assume, given that this...is a supervillain lineup, that they've _clearly practiced_. Cool.

"Of course we are." Notes the faux aristocrat. Ah, guess I said that aloud. Well, on to-

"-why you're here." the purple-masked one completes my thought. Oh, she's good.

"Of course I am." the psychic replies, mouth twitching. Well, that give me an idea...

"Ah, this'll be fun. Go ahead and demonstrate for us, and we'll get to talking, shall we?" She prompts. At this point, three things happen in quick succession:

I open myself up, and being to _pull_  
Brian and Rachel turn away.  
A smirk turns to screaming.

You know, I'm going to need to talk to Brian and Rachel about the kinds of pranks they pull on people, if this is any indication. The genteel kidnapping is one thing, but that can't be doing good things for the psychic's throat. Ah well, at least I have a mask now.


	6. Interlude 0-1 - "Yes, but they'll never believe you."

The drums rolled through my bones, as I stood still taking in the alien landscape. No, this foreign landscape: there was nothing alien about the sea of bodies surrounding me, writhing in time with the entrancing beat. This was a celebration of life, loss, and something more. It was...

My last night home. Welcome, Lisa, to a tale you'll never really be able to tell. Sorry about that. I guess this means you really are psychic, doesn't it? This is my mind, after all.

A right fucking trip, is what it was. I pushed through the garden of flesh: a sweaty, smoky host both unconcerned with propriety, but intimately concerned with every member of the mass. If anything, it reminded me of a party thrown by the...

Whatever the name, and whatever their policies, it's not like the Merchants can't throw a party. We are, of course, going to need to do something about them, wouldn't you say?

I feel the urge to join the sea of supplicants in dance, but I pressed forward through the haze and fumes towards the brightest lights. The bass rattles my bones, and growing chanting and droning started to suppress my....my...

Come on, kid, you're riding my body. Or, well, my memory of it. Keep it together, and we'll both learn something, won't we? It'll be quite the tale to tell, if you're up for it. Not that anyone would ever believe you, little Ms. Psychic.

I stumbled forward, eyes blurring, my senses start to desert me. I am coming undone; I became one with the rolling tide, and not. I need to end this; I had to continue. This is me; this would never be...

Calm down, breathe, and all that. You wanted to know about me, now you do. You are me now, after all. Keep calm, and reach the light. I did, you will. Besides, you'll never be me, kid.

That fucking...I felt my body surge forward, my mouth whisper - scream - apologies as I crashed through the masses - my neighbours, my kin - and found myself at the center of the festivities, crashing into the ground. What made me...

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I knew only grief. She was my sister in all things, and there she lay. We promised each other a life free of the struggle that had claimed her. She was to become a baker, making carb-laden confectionary for the village children. But with her eyes, hands, and easy charm, she decided her purpose was to lead those committed to our defense. To spend nights, and months in hostile territory protecting our neighbours. Protecting all of us. And now, she would never know the joy of the village children sampling her pastries under kind eyes. But we all know tragedy, don't we, Tats?

Get the fuck out of...But I saw her. And I cried. I'm crying. I haven't cried since...fuck you.

Focus, Seer, this is the price of knowledge, unfortunately. When you're cried out, you'll meet uGogo. Ask her what you want. I...think I did. This, I don't remember.

So why don't you...I crawled. I don't know if it was me or...or...I crawled. We came up to her body, and I broke. My whole body shuddered, knowing I need to move. And so I did. And so I do, one limb after the other. There is no control but me. There is nothing to stop me from knowing what I know. There is nothing but me...

She is my calm. Find her, and it will have been okay.

The drums pulsed, and I knew nothing. Moments later, I found myself in a ring, carrying me to...to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always post the rambling at the end, for some reason.


	7. Eniyan - 1.1r

A day like no other: The sun had burned away the morning fog, casting its baleful eye on the detritus of the streets, the lifeless and the quick alike. The groaning of the city awakening had subsided, leaving room for the lifeless shuffling of the docks, moribund and loving it. But the people, the person, that as the unique bit. And as if to prove it, it only took a-

"Hey, Rachel. Let's go that way. I've got a good feeling about this." The absolute waste of evolutionary time pointed with their still-swollen fingers, and a smile brighter than the sun as if the sling holding their arm were but a minor bagatelle. Fine.

"Fine." I hoped to, I don't know...Scion, are you there, it's me, Rachel. Dumbass has me questioning you, is all.

No luck. "Hey, isn't this the empanada place you Lisa told me about? Or, uh, well, I said her name already, so...anyway. You want one? I've never had one. I'm paying, anyway." It's my money, you absolute...country daughter.

"Saying the quiet part loud, partner. Besides, I've got something else in mind, landlord."

"I will toss you out, and Angelica liked me first."

"Knew you liked me. Anyway, there's no closed sign. Anyway, Mrs. Okoye's bike is here. I figure I can get her to convince her girlfriend to open a bit early. What do you say?" That...wasn't a smile, or re-assuring, you little homunculus.

"Sure. Knock yourself out." Get knocked out, more like. She hasn't liked you since she learned of you, let alone trying to get favors out of her.

The dumbass tried. And, by all the gods it happened exactly like I thought it would. Damn it all.

"Hey, you open?" A gods-damned sun on her face dumb grin on their face like fucking Lisa, pounding on the grate like it'll-

"Who. Get." The grate opened like some sort of hellmaw, a belch of heat and capsaicin that set my eyes to water would set any eyes to water. And lo, a literal devil come to set us right:

"Ah. It is you. What do you want. Tell me. And get." I see what Mrs. Perez sees in her, if she can-

"Ah! You're open! Wonderful. I have a question. What is an empanada, and can I have two?" Save me. "Or, wait, one for me, and however many Rachel wants." This arrangement may not be worth it if they turn the neighborhood against me.

"Tell me yaro why I should bother? Why I shouldn't ban you, and be about my morning?" She said with a beautiful smile: one about to do just as she said. Too bad, really.

"Oh, uh, right. So,"

And the dumbass adopted the fakest gods-be-damned salesperson posture and voice they could have:

"What if I told you I could virtually eliminate your supply-chain issues, most of your health and safety issues, and most of your maintainance issues?" and with the stupid gesticu-

The right bastard hit me with their elbow, right about then.

"I'd say you're probably telling the truth, but also trying to steal more of my business." Hah Wait. What right did she have to insult my Serves Mas right. Wait, wait, what's that smi- fuck.

"I'm...well, yes. But! It'll cut down on all the time and effort you spend fueling your wonderful fiance's obsessions. Yes?"

Gods damn it all, Mary froze, considering it. And she stayed there. And stayed there. And-

"What." She spat. Damn it.

"Ah! You know what it is, and you know what it costs. May I?"

It had been a week roving around, supplanting local businesses, and here we were, up against a local legend. This shouldn't stand, but it probably will, or we'll all go down with it, Lisa be damned. We'll all regret this, and Lisa reporting in probably won't be the end of it.

"And what's this going to cost us, little one? A favor we can't refuse, what?" Sensible lady. Wrong target, but sensible.

"Of course it'll cost you: Rachel's order, whatever it is. But I've got more for you. Where's your grease trap? You'll love this." That resigned look isn't doing me any favors. Come on, lady, stand up for...well, whatever isn't her that idiot.

"Before you do...that again, what are you putting there?"

"Two things. Converter, and some minor infrastructure to make it power your other things. Won't change much, promise!" A fuckin' lie if ever I've heard one, but go on.

"Child, explain before I-" Ah, well, she tried.

"Mi amor, let the niña work. What do we spend on this, eh? Come, let her make-" and the fight is lost. That said, from somewhere, the older lady tossed me a steaming stuffed pastry, and I can no longer call this a wasted trip.

Still a dumbass.

"All around successful. Empanadas for all!"

"Empanadas for none today."

"Details, she'll open up again soon enough. Details!"

"Just...don't." I thought this had sufficient weight, but

"Oh, come on, she was inspired! Face it, this neighborhood will have a better selection, and you know it!" Arrogant little shite.

"Not what we're out here for. Come on."

To, of course, the final official destination in our tour. The ILA-DWU-funded Brockton Bay Benevolent Food Redistribution and General Care Center, Second Docks otherwise known as the dilapidated cesspit catering to people fallen through the cracks at the bottom of the barrel. But, for some reason, Mads had been insistent, and Lis backed them up. Fools, the both, but Amadlozi would walk into a dozen fists without someone to stop it.

Lisa said this would happen. Well, after the screaming. And trying to talk through her door. Hah, Strongholds guide us, we'll need to do that again, somehow. She gave us a list of places to check out that were either Personally owned, community owned, or in some sort of legal limbo that the Mad One could use. What she didn't elaborate on was what - exactly - their plan was. Because clearly, the two are in on it together. This isn't a Tattletale plan, because it seems to be helping. Well, in an Amadlozi-sort-of-way. Everyone's grumbling, nobody's rejecting it, and everyone seems to have a side-hustle Ama's disrupting on...accident. Sure.

So, it was inevitable, I guess, that they be jumped again in another back-alley, because however helpful the waif, a Darwin Award is in their future. That said, something was a bit off about this. Not for nothing, I still blame Lisa.

"...in the...van? Why? Hey, Rachel, this kidnapping seems less kosher than yours. This fine, or...?" The crack of the long-arm against Amadlozi's head couldn't have been good, and I couldn't think of why Coil would be after either of us. I mean, I'm pretty sure he's hired the Undersiders once or twice, so what's this? Also, these guys seem a bit too...sloppy, to be his, whatever their gear.

"...rrr not. Hey!" They slurred, before putting on the most annoyingly perky voice yet. "Who had-" nobody dodges like that without being a Brute or Mover what the hell "-lunch today? Apologies." And that was my cue to shut my eyes and turn away. Human-shaped flash-bang, they name is Mellon.

An now-familiar wrenching sensation from a direction I'm rather sure isn't later, and the mercenaries were left bereft of weapons, and more importantly everything else. And Amadlozi had a stack of, ah, what were they, Resource Canisters, Standard by their feet. Of course.

"So, uh, y'all won't be needing any of that. Your van is still there, and it's not that cold out. Get in, don't come back, and we'll forget this ever happened, 'kay? 'Kay. Also, perhaps lose whatever was broadcasting static at me." Huh.

"Hey, Rach. Catch." They threw me a baton, probably tinker-made, but also likely not Tinker-tech. I'd be able to-

"No hitting the small one. Regale? Ren-faire? That'n. Please? Thanks, you're a dea-" At least they shut up when I test my new toy on them. That said, I did have a question:

"You weren't touching them."

"Of course I was, Rachel." She frowned. That...that I didn't want to deal with. "Not like you, but they touched me. I just grabbed back. It's not a question of if their hands are on me right then. The past of it, and the future threat of it are more than enough. Hey, come on." And he brushed my hair, and I felt it again.

"Better than shampoo. Come on, you figured this out already." Yeah, I had, but it's not like they had to demonstrate on me, and not one of the mercs. "If it doesn't fight me, it's easy. If it does, it's hard. Distance hardly matters, if it affects me. Come on." Like I wanted to think about that. Like I want to think about that. Mini-fucking-Endbringer. But I'm not Lisa.

"Aww, come on, Rachel, the food stands are right over there! I'll get something for everyone, and I'm paying for once!" Close as we were, it was like hearing the Simurgh giggle. Unfortunately, they really are paying me enough for this.

"Is-"

For once, they were the responsible one. A single, delicate finger against my lips, inviting li- nope. But that did look like a cop advancing on - I always forget her new name - Talia, weapon drawn. At that, I donned my mask, because this was certainly a Amadlozi-does-something-dumb moment.

Besides, the new mask is neat, not that dumbass needs to know that. I mean, it's got a link to my ID so anyone else putting it on gets a warning, then incapacitated; the eye-holes not sport what might as well be Tinker-tech goggles however much they holler about not being one, and even Lisa's pretty sure it'd take a rifle round at point blank. Nothing that it would really help, given the forces involved, but at least I wouldn't have a hole in my head. Put it together with the new suit, and I've got a proper Brute rating after all. Dumbass they may be, but this stuff is quite nice.

So, I said nothing, and tried to work out their hand signals. It was clear they were from an organized system, but not one I'd ever seen. And definitely not the dialect the Undersiders used. But, in the end, it made sense enough: I was to intercept and subdue the cop, then check on Talia - probably not the best idea, what with her being terrified of me - but Amadlozi is going to do...something to the cruiser, probably something more complicated than taking my new toy to it. I can work with that plan.

Walking up to an agitated, overly-focused enemy combatant in full daylight was easy enough, given both his mental state, and several years of practice: it's not about muffling the sound of the combat boots, it's making sure they just sound like ambient noise, not worth your attention. So, that's what I did. Of course, his constant yelled commands to the increasingly confounded and terrified young lady left him somewhat insensate to the wider world. Even so, I eventually moved close enough for him to notice, and whirl to face me. I'll give him credit, it was a neatly done evolution, going from retracted low ready, advancing on Talia, to almost pointing directly at me. Problem is, I was already in position, and better armed for the encounter. In a single motion I swung, and extended the baton striking his wrist, then pivoted away from the new trajectory of his gun but still inwards retracting the baton to allow my arm to fully extend, then brought it back in once more extending the weapon to strike at his midriff, causing him to fold and finally drop his pistol. I retracted the baton once more, flicked a switch, and brought it down -lightly- on his head to stun him with whatever bullshit tinker-nonsense I'd just triggered.

Assailant down, I kicked the gun back towards the cruiser, which Amadlozi was leaning on looking smug and wearing that creepy mask, and approached my neighbor.

"Talia. You're safe. Stop crying, you need to go home. Find your mother." She'd been staying with her mother during her transition, and I sure as hell wasn't the right person to comfort her. Besides, I don't like people crying on my streets. Sends the wrong message, if anyone's watching.

She continued crying, curled up for just long enough for me to start to say something else, but then quickly, jerkily got to her feet. She spent a moment to compose herself, then launched herself in vaguely the right direction to hug me. Definitely not.

"I said home." voice low, and as menacing as I dared, given her state. She backed up, but gave me a dopey smile, tears and snot still streaming down her face, and started shuffle-running home. This, of course, still left me with a laid-out officer, and my idiot of a house-mate.

"You did your good deed for the day. Now what?" They walked over to the prone officer, who was starting to stir.

"Hey, wake up." Voice light and airy - well, as light and airy as their voice got, anyway "You've got a bit of explaining to do, then I suspect you have a bit of a walk ahead of you. What's your name, for one?" Well, this will be awkward.

"Officer James D. Williamson, badge number..." Mads was handing off this information to the first of the Community Defense Groups we ran across. Fancy name for ex-bangers and unusually militant old folks given fancy uniforms, fancier protective equipment, and a community mandate to protect and serve. Granted, I think Amadlozi actually meant that, and their training seems to reflect it. Talking people down while taking fire? Running into burning buildings? Hell if the BBPD would bother, so that's a step up. None of the groups have earned weapons yet, but they all seem weirdly eager to run into danger unarmed, so maybe there's something to this new weirdness. Or Amadlozi's crazy and trying to get my neighbors killed. 50/50, really.

Either way, we've had our first case of official summary justice: Officer Williamson is hereby exiled from this community, and all associated that agree with the ban. If again captured on common ground, he is to be detained until a full trial can be held. Trial. A weird mob thing where everyone yells until something happens. Well, at least I don't have to attend. This...this'll get attention. On the one hand, I'd rather avoid it. On the other, I'm interested in what the little dumbass is leading to. I mean, however weird, they do seem to have the welfare of us all in mind. Even the -suitably recalcitrant- Nazis, which - given they've killed at least one of them - is something. Speaking of consequences...

"I called Lisa. She said she would call the PRT, just to get it over with. She said not to kill any of them, be nice, and stay out of her head. I agree with the first one. Meetings over there, two intersections down." I pointed to a dilapidated gas station with an old food truck slowly melding with the asphalt. "You want me around?"

"Depending on who it is, you should probably just hang about in the background. Don't want them getting spooked too early. Maybe mask up and hang by the old convenience store? I'll greet them by the pumps, and you can jump in if things get awkward. Or you just want to say hi to someone after it proves congenial. Up to you, at that point."

All told, a fight would have been better, but Amadlozi seems to be blessed like that.


	8. Eniyan - 1.2

I feel the motorcycle coming before I hear it, which is a trip. Wearing green - or something like that - and assorted AMERICA (TM) things, I think I can safely say this is Miss Militia. Also, I'm quite sure that's faster than Brockton Bay's speed limit allows, but hey. So, I figure she's the one they sent for me.

Proving me reasonable, she slides to a stop by the entrance, and dismounts, grabbing a device from the vehicle and putting it on her hip. She advances towards me, while clearly listening to an earpiece: I mean, I can't see it, but she's got that pose and look in her eyes. Then, she looks...like she's waiting for something. I mean, clearly she's here for us, but she's just standing astride her bike not doing anything, so.

"Help you with something, Miss?" I'm so clever.

"Just waiting for the other member of my party. Officer Munhoz should be here...about a minute ago, but this was all a bit last minute, you understand." Officer? Well, all right then.

"If you don't mind, then, it's about snack time." And with that, I pull out a thermos of soup. "Lentils, good Miss, are a most delicious drink. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar, and probably stole my bicycle."

With a smile, and a silent chuckle, she settles in. "So, you've teamed up with...the Undersiders, was it? Hell-"

"Bitch, please." I said with the exact wrong intonation. Okay, it's a terrible joke in poor taste, but how many chances am I going to have to make it without also having Rachel hit me again? I feel justi-

"And I feel offended that you'd feel the need to hit me on my teammate's behalf. You lose 2 reputation points, Miss." She's still laughing, the smug bandana.

"And a squirt gun? I'm going to need to study your powers further. Wouldn't want to find out soup-stealing bombs are a thing you can make, after all. I'd starve." And at that, I drink from my thermos to forestall any more of this. Such humiliation. I'll need to bribe Rachel to keep this from...everyone, really.

"Now-" I being, but am immediately interrupted by an alert from my implants, but, as common decency demands, I pull out my slate and indicate the call request, before tapping my ear. This is a weird decade, but the physical gestures are fun enough. For now.

"Hey, what's-" And, like the rude little brat he is, he just starts streaming video...of Officer Munhoz on her motorcycle, I assume. And that certainly looks like a police van lurking in the back, but maybe they just do that. Like Bigfoot. "Ah. For context:" I begin my own stream "Also, warn a body before you do that. Now, you know what to do if you have visitors, what do you need me for? Anyway, the cop's expected, so let her through, like we taught you. Yes? And hug your family for me?" The video feed bobbed. "Good. See you at practice." ...and he's gone. Cool. Good kid. Can't talk, but can text, and why doesn't he text me. I feel like he's punishing me, and only me, for something. I'll figure it out.

"Good news, Miss, your partner's almost here, I believe."

She nods, having heard my call, and most likely having received an update herself.

Officer Munhoz rode in to the sound of...well, mostly just asphalt and rubber. Or, well, whatever the road is made of meeting the tires of her, ah, that's mostly a motorcycle. The whine of the electric motor almost misses my ear, but it's just there. Alternately, Rachel's dogs start keening in a way that makes me want to hug them, but also recognize that it's something to be wary of. Many pets and tackles when we get home. Or, well, they do, anyway.

The officer parks a good distance away, and when she dismounts it's all creaking leather and practiced movements. She walks up to Miss Militia and gives a curt salute, which the Cape returns, more fluid - but studied - in her motions. And then, of course, she turns to me. Well, us, actually, seeming to split the difference between Rachel and myself, despite my partner being in the clear background.

"Amadlozi." and I can hear the quotes. Or the A.K.A. affix. Either way: "I've been re-tasked to liaise with you and Miss Militia, here. I will have questions, but I have also been asked to let the Hero take the lead."

Ah.

"As she said," Miss Militia continued, "I will be taking lead, here. As such, before anything, we would ask your allegiances. At the simplest: Hero, Villain, or...I mean, you are consorting with a known villain, if not several."

"Oh, well, the goal is to help out around here, yeah?" I begin. "Houses for the...I mean, you have the involuntary homeless...food for people, and, I mean, basic things, right? Anyway, we've got a patrol to finish. Y'all feel like accompanying us: See for yourselves?" I finish, a bit lamely.

They exchange glances, and seem to come to some sort of agreement - although their respective offices likely already have one - "As you say. Lead on."

Our first stop is, of course, our next stop - Rachel and mine, that is. James Roland: Aspiring restaurateur, and former liquor-store thief. Or so he says, anyway. Rachel notices immediately the slight problem in my plan:

"Bringing the cops to James'. huh." She states, although I'm reasonably sure that's a question.

"Ah, right. Well, I'll, uh..." I trail off, as I check to see if he's available for a quick chat before we get there. And that he is:

"Hey, Tiny. You two cancelling on me?" He starts, an airy tone of disappointment, as if it matters not a bit, although I don't think that's quite true. For the record, I'm not short, it's just that he's too tall. Nobody should be over 180cm, really. Whatever.

"Ah, nah, but uh..." I text back, routing the message through the correct protocols so he sees and hears my network construct speaking back, "We've just got a bit of company, that's all. Shouldn't change anything, really, but I figured you'd want to know. Uh..."

"And now you have me worried, Tiny. Come on, who are they?" He puts on a cute little pout, as if I wasn't going to tell him, or something. I mean, it works, but hey.

"I hope you're a fan of Miss Militia, and, uh, relatively new BBPD member Munhoz?" I question hopefully. The strained chuckle does nothing for my nerves, unfortunately, but I remain optimistic in this setting a decent tone for subsequent encounters. Surely.

"Well, thank you for informing me. But, I have to ask: why do you look like that?" He asks, likely to distract himself from the revelation, itself having distracted him from, if I guess correctly, familiarising himself with the food service machine's interface, and refining his recipes into a form it will accept. "I mean, the, uh, lack of motion thing. It's a bit...creepy."

"Oh, uh, I'm actually just texting you. If you do it through an implant like I have, or after training the system, you can make it talk for you. I figured you were busy, so I figured listening to me would be easier, though I guess I've thorouhly distracted you by this point. Sorry about that. Hope I didn't interrupt you anywhere too critical: I'm sure the kids'll love your concoctions. Hey, speaking of, maybe that'll be a good way to, uh, introduce yourself. I'll ask what they like, text you normally, and you can hand double portions to Rachel and I? You know, for poison testing. Give you something to work on while we walk to you, yeah, get your mind off of it a bit?"

"Uh, yeah, that sounds good. So...what, you can train a voice model, but not one for facial motion?" He digs.

"Oh, right, uh, you can. But you have to tell it to do that, and I didn't feel like it. I'll do it in the future, if you're that bothered by it. Sorry 'bout it, though." I mean, I don't feel too bad, but I'll keep it in mind. By which I mean set the system to remind me to do it every time. Remembering things myself is, eh...

A piece of... plastic? - [Cherry Pit], thanks - pinging off of my visor reminds me to pay better attention to the people around me:

"Hey. I want cherry." Ah, Rachel. Well, thanks for the easy segue, at least. Bit gross, though.

"Well, y'all heard her: What's your favourite sort of ice cream? Uh, just flavours, no toppings just yet, I'm afraid. Although I think he can swing, say, a small bit of walnut ice cream mixed with a proper serving of chocolate, for instance. But the texture will be a bit lacking. I'm assured, " I am - in fact - not, "that he's working on it." I had never thought to ask until now. It'll work out, I'm sure.

I had sent James a text with our respective orders, and a ping to let him know when we'd be there. I mean, he was probably watching my public location, but it's always polite. Besides, I figured he might have been busy. Of course he was:

Walking up, I resist the urge to check my feeds to see what - exactly - is about to go so terribly wrong, because it's probably just an intentional surprise, and the folk around here don't seem quite as fluent at adjusting their virtual presence. Although a few of the kids seem to be catching on quickly, to everyone else's panic and dismay. Imagine being handed the perfect tool for tracking your child, and they figure out how to send false signals a day later. Wild.

Even so, I send a quick message to Rachel to, uh, trigger whatever it is, and she does so with remarkable aplomb. Well, that is, she doesn't smack any of the children that boil for from the quickly opening restaurant doors - smoky armored glass with neon messages proclaiming everything from menu items to the ubiquitous community message board - to hand us our strange new foods - well, hand them to Rachel and I, two each to be tasted and one each passed on to our guests - and pool around Rachel and Miss Militia. I feel left out, but Munhoz looks...wary and confused? Yeah, sure, let's go with that. It's mostly just a slightly different version of her original wary scowl. She's kinda like Rachel, that way, honestly.

So the surge settles, and we sample our respective treats - chilled gel spheres in salty mango for myself, cherry for Rachel - and those of our guests to reassure them - pistachio and date for Miss Militia and smoked banana for Munhoz - before handing off the latter two. Even with that, Miss Militia insists on pulling out something from her cycle, and jabbing it in both of their portions. Like she doesn't trust us, or something. Whatever. They'll come around.

After her bout of paranoia, though, Militia seems to relax around the children clamouring for an autograph, and asking myriad conflicting questions. That, and she whips out a... right, that looks like a pen, and it writes like one - or a marker? - but my visor assures me that it is definitely not a pen. Or if it is, it's the most over-designed pen I've ever seen. But unlike her cycle, it at least looks like it could actually work, from the scans I can take of it. Might be worth trying to make one of my own, if I can figure out what all it's supposed to do.

It takes longer than I'd hoped for the children to disperse, but disperse they do. Nobody asked for anything from Munhoz or myself, and she seemed a bit put out. Not sure why. Well, one asked to see Munhoz' cap - she declined, citing some regulation or other-, and one asked me why I was being so slow about getting around to their neighborhood: Good kid, that'n. I'm impressed at Rachel's restraint, honestly. I doubt she'd hurt any of them just for being, well, brats, but I figured she try to shove them away; She doesn't say much, but she does sign when asked. Miss Militia, on the other hand, is clearly treating this like a PR event, for which she is clearly trained. I'm a bit miffed she didn't turn the squirt gun on anyone else, but I guess that's reserved for people whose guardians won't sue.

"So, is this it, then? You're distributing snacks to the local children and calling it good? Kid..." Munhoz starts in before trailing off at Rachel and MM's shared look. Weird, but it does give an opening for our newest interlocutor:

"Nice as that is, that's not really what this is about in the end." James says by way of prologue. "Selfish as it is, it's my way of keeping busy. And, really, it's always been my dream. But, uh, multiple felonies on my record put it just a bit out of reach. And then, earlier this week, the construction folk hit my neighborhood and I got to talking to one of them, a cousin or something I'm told, and she said it would be great if there was a place like for her kid brother to get the odd desserts he sees in the cooking magazines at the library."

With an awkward scratch at the back of his neck, he continues, "Truth is, though, they practically dragged me out here to this abandoned store and told me to do all of the design and be ready to open today. I've not slept much since then, though, because I mean...it's pretty much all I've wanted to do since I was, I dunno, 7? First time Pops told me I couldn't have dessert unless I made or bought it myself."

With a chuckle and a shrug, he seems to step back from the conversation, leaving me a bit of room to jump in.

"The point, beyond the obvious function of an establishment like this, is to provide opportunities for people to work, contribute, and better their community. I mean, the people around here don't have much, on average, and they lack the opportunities to do much more than pointless drudgework if even that. The plan is to get everyone to the point that they all have the freedom to choose how they contribute, rather than being conned into something meaningless. I mean: cleaning, cooking, and child care are all worthy pursuits, but few people here really wanted to work at the local children's pizza place down the street. The ones that did were either out of options, or unusually excited to do one of those. Now? The only people working there are happy to do it, because the people just after another paycheck to pay rent can go to the things they want, or are skilled at. In James' case, that's losing sleep figuring out how to program a machine to make odd desserts. You know, instead of knocking over liquor stores to feed his cousins." I pause. "How are they, anyway?"

He gives me a queer look, before asking: "Can't you just check? I thought you, uh..."

"Well, yes, but I'd rather ask you. I mean, they're your cousin, and they don't know me." I demur, trying to give MM and Munhoz a bit more context for James, here, from his own mouth.

"Fair enough, uh, they're doing okay. Liam's having a bit of trouble adjusting to the tutoring sessions, and Janice is still exceptionally terrible at archery but dead set on it. She's having fun, at least, and he's catching up in school so it's working out, at least. Um, uh..." He looks over to Rachel, stumbling over his words a bit. Ah. Rachel catches on before he chokes completely, to my relief.

"What?" So soft, this one.

"Could, uh, Regent...could you than- I mean, convey my, uh, J's thanks for the Range? Also, uh...she kind of wants to meet you some day if, uh, if that's something you..." Poor man.

"I'm not so sure..." begins Miss Militia, before deciding on a better course. I mean, near any course would be. "That is, you've...built a gun range? I'm sorry, but I'm going to need to-"

"-not jump to any conclusions." I interrupt. "The range was already there. We just fixed it up. The original owner still has the license, or whatever, and everything we did is well documented. Regent's team just brought it up to our new standards, which are...a bit more stringent than the ones we found on the books here. Those were, frankly, terrifying."

At this, she seemed both hesitant, and partially mollified. "I'd like to see these documents, if you would?"

Not an unreasonable request, at least. I figure I can get that together by the end of this little tour. Probably. Maybe I'll just ask Lisa? I do feel a bit bad, though, I mean, she's good at it, but she's no administrator, really. Wonder what she'd rather be doing with her time? Well, she's still the best at it for now, and she did volunteer. We'll have to see about recruitment for folks to take up that mantle. Preferably without veering into her weird villain-speeches. They are f-

"Cadet." Rachel prompts. Ah, right.

"Uh, yeah, we can get that for you today. Well, unless you need to leave before the tour is over. Then we'll get them to you, uh, in a timely manner. Tomorrow good for a drop off?" I pull together.

"That will do. Officer Munhoz, the PRT will foreward a full copy to the BBPD for your own records. Will that suffice?"

"Certainly, ma'am." Lovely, everyone's on board with this nonsense.

Well, the bad old days were called that for a reason, I suppose.

"..."


End file.
